


The Operator and his Puppets

by slenderjeangenet



Series: Perfect Destruction Trilogy [1]
Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Based on an obscure novel, Homosexuality, Jean Genet, M/M, Witold Gombrowicz, slight gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slenderjeangenet/pseuds/slenderjeangenet
Summary: It’s over. Alex is dead, Brian is dead, Jay is dead, everyone is dead.Tim is still chained to the pills and has these deaths weighing on him all hours of the day. Into this broken man’s life bounds 18-year-old Polish runaway, Witold Kosovo.Tim soon finds himself attracted to the young Pole, but as their relationship blossoms into a tumultuous nightmare, another person enters their lives, one with a particularly shocking claim...





	1. SHE.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I noticed how the old “Operator and His Puppets” was getting to be too much of a mess and decided to cut, streamline, and change parts of the story. It’s still based on “Hecate and Her Dogs” and “Our Lady of the Flowers,” but more refined.  
> So here it is, the new and improved “The Operator and His Puppets.”  
> Trigger warning for a disgusting scene involving a wound.

The Operator and His Puppets.

Prologue: SHE.

Heavy rain falls outside the small, country bed-and-breakfast in the forest. An elderly couple sits at their kitchen table with their adult son. All are eating a simple dinner and waiting for guests, but none come.

The family eats in silence until a knock at the door interrupts them.

”Thomas,” the woman says to her son, “go to the front door and see if it’s a guest.”

”Yes ma’am.”

”Frank, can you check them in?”

”Yes, my dear Rosalyn.”

Thomas opens the door and standing before him is a beautiful young woman. SHE has a vacant look in HER eyes and a massive, dark spot on the side of HER soaked, green t-shirt. SHE walks past Thomas without saying a word and walks up to Frank in his office. SHE is gripping her side the entire time.

”Is there a room available?”

Frank looks at HER and the spot on HER shirt before looking at the register and finding a room.

“You will be in Room 1 on the second floor. Breakfast is at 8:30, dinner is at 7:00, there is no smoking allowed, and all of our rooms are asbestos free.”

Frank hands HER the key and SHE heads upstairs to HER room. SHE closes the door and isn’t seen for the rest of the night.

SHE isn’t lost on Frank, Rosalyn, or Thomas, though. 

”Frank, is she alright?”

”I don’t know. She was holding her side and that huge stain on her side looked a little like blood. Her shirt was wet, though, so it may be nothing, but let’s at least check on her in the morning after breakfast.”

”Got it.”

After this, all 3 members of the family retreat to their respective bedrooms for the night. 

 

SHE is currently naked on HER bed and gripping a grotesque, open wound on HER left side. The wound oozes a pinkish-white mixture of pus and blood all over the sheets and tears stain HER face as SHE grips harder and harder. SHE cries out a mess of angered woes and sorrowful moans during this entire process.

”Why? It hurts so bad. It’s all your fault! Why did you let this happen?! YOU did this! YOU LET HIM DO THIS!”

SHE gives one last forceful squeeze on the wound. A small, silver object pops out of the wound. A jolt of shooting, electric pain rolls through HER body as SHE screams out in combined pain, anger and sadness.

  
**”TIM!** ”

 


	2. Pills. Our Lady.

 

Tim slams the motel room door behind him and collapses onto the hard, small bed. It has only been 2 weeks since Alex shot Jay and Tim stabbed him through the neck in Benedict Hall. To Tim, it feels like only two hours have passed. As Tim lies on the bed, the cold, hard truth sinks into his Operator-and-pill affected mind.

He can never go home again. Alex took care of that. 

He can never live without the pills. The Operator took care of that.

The world can never forget who he is or what he had done. Jay took care of that.

Tim can never forget what he had done. He took care of that.

A small tear rolls down his face that Tim quickly wipes off before he starts coughing again. It’s all nothing more than routine at this point. He reaches for the pill bottle in his bag, pulls out two, pops them into his mouth, and swallows with his own spit. 

As the pills kick in, Tim remembers something Brian gave him before they graduated. _Our Lady of the Flowers_  by Jean Genet. Sure, he had read it already, but it’s better than watching the  _Marble Hornets_ channel. 

Tim sits at the small desk next to the television, clicks on the lamp, and starts reading the book.

Everything is not fine. Everything is bad, and for Tim, it will only get worse from here.


	3. Runaway. HER pain.

The Clear Ark Motel. A disgusting, horrid place that is a favorite of hookers, drug pushers, and runaways. It’s hourly-rate, next to the freeway, and the only receptionist who works the front desk asks little to no questions. 

Today is no different for the motel. A disheveled young man saunters in through the front door with a small suitcase, a black notebook in his pocket, and a leather jacket draped over his frame.

The receptionist looks at the young man, but says nothing at all.

”Name.”

”Witold Kosovo.”

”ID, please.”

Witold gives the receptionist his driver’s license and is given a room key almost immediately.

”Room 121. Don’t lose your key.”

And with that, Witold is climbing the stairs and finds his room. When he walks in, Witold throws his suitcase onto the floor, pulls out his notebook, turns on the desk lamp, and writes an entry in it.

_February 26, 2018. I checked into a motel today. It’s a disgusting place, but at least it’s better than sleeping in the forest, on a park bench, or in the actual park. I’ve been on the road now for 1 week and I don’t plan on coming home anytime soon. I don’t know when I will find a decent place to live, but hey, motels are ok._

_Fitting that I share my name with Witold Gombrowicz. Both of us left our homes, both of us were dirt poor, and both of us loved to travel. Finally, both of us loved to write diaries. While mine probably won’t get published, it’s always good to write in one anyway. A diary is good for a lot of things, observations about life, uncensored musings about a lot of things, and many other writings. Finally, and this is the most obvious, a diary always keeps secrets. You don’t have to worry about your diary spilling your secrets, for a diary is an extension of you._

_One last thing before I go to bed for the night. My fever returned last night, and I started hallucinating again. I saw HIM. Blank-Suit, as mother used to call him in the “gawęda” she would tell me before bed. I know those stories probably aren’t true, but I keep seeing him. I know the pills are supposed to help, but they only help for so long before HE reappears._

_Pill time. Time for bed. Goodnight._

 

10 miles away, SHE is sleeping and muttering various things as SHE tosses and turns in bed, the wound stinging as it touches the scratchy fabric.

”Alex! Brian! Alex! Brian!

Totheark is mocking me.

Tim, wait! 

Just listen to me!

I was gonna tell you tonight, Tim!

He is a LIAR.”

SHE jolts awake, HER hair clinging to HER face, HER hand covering the wound. SHE walks into the bathroom, looks at the bleeding wound in the mirror, and simply plugs it with toilet paper before sitting down on the closed toilet and crying in anger and sadness.

”You lied to me! You really are a liar!”

”I hate you, Tim.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gawęda is a Polish folk tale that would be shared among members of the rural nobility in the 17th century. Gawęda were often told by the fireside, so they were, in a way, old campfire stories.


	4. Breakfast. Hallucination

Tim wakes up with a pounding headache and sweat running down his face and body. He trudges to the bathroom, his head hurting with every step he takes, his body chilled by the sweat.

One look in the mirror and Tim realizes how sick he is. His face is pale, his eyes have bags beneath them, and his hair is damp with sweat and oil. Tim ignores this, though, and continues with his morning routine. 5 minutes later, he is dressed in an old, white t-shirt, shorts and is walking to breakfast.

Breakfast at this motel is a cheap, average affair. Scrambled eggs that look like mattress stuffing, bacon that resembles a belt, hockey puck biscuits, black sausage, old, dry pastries and old, warmed coffee make up the Clear Ark's menu. Tim grabs a plate and fills it with bacon, biscuits and a pastry before sitting down at a table in the corner, away from the small crowd. Tim quietly eats the cheap breakfast, but his headache still torments him as he eats. Sweat drips off of Tim's forehead as he eats and he feels hot. 

"Fever," Tim mutters, "shit."

A dead fly drops from the ceiling onto Tim's plate as he eats, but is quickly flicked away. As soon as it flies off the table, another dead fly falls onto Tim's plate, then another, and another. Tim looks up and is greeted by a horrifying sight:

A mass of dead flies stuck in the vent. 

Disgust and horror fill Tim as he stares at the mass and it increases when the rusted vent gives way and the mass falls onto Tim's plate and the dead flies fall off of it. Alex's severed, decomposing head is what they were hiding and Tim stares at the head of his former enemy with a myriad of emotions: guilt, disgust, horror, anger and sadness, to name a few. The glasses are cracked and fogged up, the eyes, cold and emotionless, stare into nothing, and the entire thing looks like it could fall apart with the slightest touch.

"Alex..." Tim whispers to himself, "can't leave me alone even in death, can you? Go to hell, for all I care," he spits at the head.

Tim stands up and leaves, but bumps into a hungover and tired Witold.

"Sorry." The apology is terse and quick.

Witold gives the finger and stumbles into the dining room. Tim glares in response and heads back to his room when something catches his attention. The table he sat at is clean and Witold has taken his place. 

"I'm losing my goddamn mind," he mutters as he walks, but his foot hits something- Witold's black diary. "Property of Witold Kosovo" is scribbled on the cover in black Sharpie, but Tim hesitates returning it.

Out of curiosity, Tim flips through the diary and is immediately taken by surprise by the first sentence he flips to-

"Mother told me a gawęda today. Blank-Suit was the star again. I'm hesitant to tell her about my dreams, though."

Tim flips through more pages and comes across another bone-chilling entry-

"Blank-Suit is no longer a resident of Mother'sgawęda nor a resident of my dreams, I saw him at Grandmother's birthday party. Nobody could see him, though."

Pale and with his heart sinking, Tim flips through to another entry in the diary-

"He's here i saw him in my room he was in the corner staring me down blank-suit is real and he stalked me all the way from poland he's not just a figment of mother's stories he's real"

Tim's heart sinks in his chest after he closes the diary. Witold is being stalked as well. Tim pockets the diary and heads back to his room to read through it.

Witold sticks his hand in his pocket and freaks out upon noticing his diary isn't there.


End file.
